


Strange Acquaintances

by ister



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: 1940s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Flirting, Betaed, Falling In Love, Fluff, M/M, Post-War Vienna, Post-World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 12:53:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8891548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ister/pseuds/ister
Summary: It is 1949 when Napoleon meets Illya.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Val Mora (valmora)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/valmora/gifts).



> This is my take on your prompt. I hope you like it!
> 
> [Here](http://www.vienna-timeline.com/?page_id=5855) is a website with a few photographies to get a feeling for post-war Vienna. And [here](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/8/82/Wien_Besatzungszonen.png) is a map of the zones of occupation. Brigittenau is the 20th district of Vienna, Döbling the 19th and Aspern is located in the 22nd (which is now called Donaustadt).
> 
> Hover over the sentences for translation, if your one the computer. If you're on the phone, you can find it at the end of the work.

Another aircraft is heading for Aspern. The ground rumbles beneath his feet for a few seconds, but it does nothing to distract him from his nervousness. Napoleon clenches and unclenches his fists, fingers restless, shaking. He sighs, then tries to will away the pounding in his head that sounds like bad idea, bad idea, bad idea.

He’s walking around Brigittenau, trying to get a feeling for the surrounding area and its people. On the surface it’s a simple task, but it leads his mind to wander, wondering what else to do beyond avoiding the attention of the Russians as he strolls through the wrong zone of occupation.

A few children on bicycles are watching him, fear prominent in their eyes, and it takes considerable willpower to not turn around and smile at them. Russians are not known for their goodwill, and most of them take far too much from the families living in their zone - _terrorizing them_ , as his superior officers would say.

As he continues on down the street, his thoughts turn to the two pieces he’d stolen the night before. Most Nazi officials had fled the country after the war, and a good number had left secret rooms full of stolen antiquities behind. Secret rooms with well-locked doors that provide enough challenge - and dare he say _fun_ \- to pass his long off-duty hours.

He shakes his head minutely and brings his attention back to his surroundings. Brigittenau holds a great many empty houses large enough to hide a few stolen pieces. Napoleon doesn’t know as much as he could about this craft, but he knows how to be inconspicuous, and sneaking in and out of Russian-occupied territory has only encouraged his behaviour.

At least, he likes to _think_ he knows how to be inconspicuous, because the moment shouting breaks out behind him and he turns around to see an Austrian boy hurtling towards him on a rickety bicycle, his instincts take over and he jumps well back to safety. “Jesus!” he gasps, heart pounding hard despite himself.

“Der kann ma a ned helfen!” the boy shouts.

It takes a bit more than that to get him involved. In fact, it takes a young man - tall and gangly and blond and _handsome_ , if he may be permitted the observation - too focused on his book to look up before stepping into the road, directly into the path of oncoming fury.

“Watch out!” he calls, but it’s too late.

Both of them, rascal and reader alike, learn to fly. He’s sprinting towards them without a thought just a moment after impact, nearly losing his footing in his haste.

“Ist alles in Ordnung?” he calls, heart still in his throat, but the boy just gathers his bike and flees the scene, leaving him alone with the tall man.

“Sie müssen mir nicht helfen,” comes the sharp reply - a clear dismissal, but Napoleon is too taken aback by the formality to answer properly. 

“ _Sie?_ ”

“Sollte ich nicht Probleme mit der Wortfindung haben?“ The stranger dusts off his jacket and collects his book. “Was machen Sie in der falschen Zone?” he asks.

Deciding it’s best to keep his mouth shut, because lying definitely won’t save him, Napoleon just shakes his head.

“Also sind Sie reine Dekoration?” the man says drily.

Napoleon sputters, feeling his face redden at the words. “Wie bitte?”

Tall Man snorts. “You heard what I said,” he responds, still in German. “I’m not going to repeat a compliment - you don’t need more than one.”

Ah, verbal riposte. This, at least, is an area in which his experience does not lack. He smiles. “You must be a lot of fun at parties.”

Tall Man scowls, seemingly to scare him away, having no success with it. “I prefer to be professional.”

“Boring, you mean. A bit young for that, aren’t we?” Napoleon eyes him up, trying his best flirtatious smile. He’s playing a dangerous game, but he’s already in enemy territory so he might as well go all in.

Judging by the stranger’s reaction, ‘all in’ isn’t quite enough. “What are you doing here?” he asks, voice flat.

“I don’t think that’s any of your business.” Napoleon folds his arms, but doesn’t entirely lose the smile. Defensiveness is a far worse tell than failed charm.

“Oh, I think it is,” the man responds, taking no such pains. “You’re clearly American - your accent gives you away immediately - so I want to know why you’re here, in the wrong zone, talking to me.” That last is slow and deliberate enough that Napoleon can finally place the slight tilt to his vowels, the curtness of his consonants. Russian, he has to be. 

His blood should run cold. He should be terrified. He should be fighting the urge to cut his losses and _run_ , but he isn’t. _Bad idea_ , says the pounding in his head, and he ignores it. He hasn’t had enough experience to know what it feels like to make a life-changing decision, but this feels like it could well be one. “Well,” he starts slowly, voice pitched low, “I do enjoy talking to pretty people.”

The Russian shakes his head, presumably to hide an unintentional smile, but his effort is in vain: Napoleon spots it the second it appears on his face. “You are like one of the cowboys in Karl May’s books. Too daring for your own good.”

“Maybe I enjoy danger,” he responds, and gets a snort in return.

“Of course you do. No one else would be so stupid.”

“Nothing wrong with a little peril every now and then,” he points out. 

Their conversation fades from argument into banter, neither of them quite knowing why they they’ve chosen amiability over hostility. It might be curiosity, the chance to talk to someone who seems to embodies yet defies every stereotype there is about their nation. It might be the smiles they exchange, brazen hiding shy, experience hiding newness. It might be the fact that they are tired, tired of fighting, of war, of hating people they don’t know.

Napoleon soon learns some interesting things about his new acquaintance: his full name (Illya Kuryakin), his embarrassing love for inaccurate western novels, how to make him blush (not that it’s hard) and, most importantly, that he wants to see him again.

He makes sure to visit him – Illya – from time to time, eliciting an exasperated groan when he dares to find him in his quarters. After nearly getting caught for the third time, they set up a different meeting point: an abandoned house far from the Aspern airport. It also turns out to be the perfect spot for hiding the antiquities Napoleon steals when he isn’t preoccupied with scandalizing Illya.

Between bickering, trading tales, and talking openly about the war, Napoleon feels himself growing fond of his new friend. He’s not used to being able to share so much about his past in return for Illya telling stories of his own, albeit quite reluctantly at first. Napoleon knows he’s being just as stupid as Illya first accused him of being, because the whole thing’s going to blow up into his face sooner or later, but for the moment, he is happy.

* * *

“You never told me how you got into our zone,” Illya says out of the blue one day, still staring at his chess board.

“Well,” Napoleon starts, moving one pawn, “I’d love to tell you that I have important relationships, but that would be a lie.”

“Lies over lies.” Illya makes a show of choosing which pawn to move. 

Silence fills the room once more after that, giving Napoleon an opportunity to think. He can’t remember a single person he’s been honest with, even his mother. She’d always demanded to know what he was up to, and he’d never told her the truth.

With Illya, it’s so much easier to tell the truth, to expose himself. He’s still not sure how, or why, but something about the other man makes him want to talk about everything. So he does, explaining how he faked his birth certificate, how he has at least five different aliases, how his own mother doesn’t know he’s in Europe. It’s strange, trusting his enemy, but at the same time, it isn’t.

Talking to Illya feels both familiar and frightening. For once, he doesn’t need to come up with falsehoods designed to impress. Illya is fascinated by his past and asks a lot of questions, getting impatient when Napoleon gives only vague answers. It’s possible that he enjoys teasing Illya a little too much.

“I’m at my best when lying,” Napoleon quips, moving his rook.

“Yes, and you’re at your worst when playing chess,” Illya shoots back, taking his queen.

“Not again,” Napoleon moans.

He is rewarded with a smug smile. “You should focus on the game.”

“I would if _someone_ weren’t doing such a good job of distracting me.” It’s out of Napoleon’s mouth before he’s able to stop it, and he hasn’t exactly been subtle before but even so it’s hard not to wince or try to talk his way around it.  
“Oh?” Illya’s face sobers. “Must be a very interesting girl. Who is she?” 

He’s probably going for casual, but it comes out flat and bleak instead, and of course. Of course he thinks it’s someone else. Of course he assumes that despite all the time they’ve been spending together, Napoleon must have found someone else. 

Is that a statement about Napoleon’s character, though, or Illya’s own? Does he think that it _couldn’t_ be him, that he’s somehow not worthy of regard? Has he already forgotten their first meeting, with all of his staring and smirking and flirtatious tones?

He still has to answer Illya’s question, though, and suddenly staring and smirking and flirting with a stranger is worlds simpler than giving an honest answer to the one person he can be honest _with_. 

It takes time, and a couple long breaths, and a hand through his hair, and a slightly hysterical mental shrug torn between _what’s the worst than can happen?_ and _bad idea bad idea bad idea bad idea_ before he finally gets it out. 

“It’s not a girl,” he says, with a wry smile that feels like a grimace.

“A man, then?” Illya’s face changes, now he appears to be deep in thought.

“Yes.” He watches the other’s grip on his queen tighten, his knuckles whitening.

Illya looks down at the board, then back up. “You spend time with other people?” he asks softly.

“No. Only with you and my friends back in Döbling,” he confesses.

“Then who is it? Eli? Or Jimmy?” He’s never shown real interest in Napoleon’s friends before, but now the names come easily, spat like they’re filthy. “Do they know?” His hands are trembling.

“No, Illya, they’re just my friends,” Napoleon tries to explain. “I don’t start things with friends.” 

“Oh.” The look on Illya’s face is indescribable, a mixture of resignation and disappointment and loss and something else he cannot name.

“You’re not my friend,” he blurts out, unthinking, and freezes. 

After moments of stunned disbelief, he leans forward across the small table, not able to stand the silence any longer. Illya’s lips against his are softer than he imagined they would be, since they’re split and chapped most of the time. Illya makes a muffled sound against him, something like confusion and relief and want, then jerks back and turns away.

“Sorry,” Illya mumbles. “I can’t.”

Napoleon sits back as well, calm even when he wants to scramble and fall and run away.

“Pity,” he says quietly, smiles like he made a simple mistake rather than ruining the only thing he cared about, and gets up and leaves. Maybe Illya says something, tries to reach out, tries to get him to stay, to talk, but Napoleon doesn’t hear. He walks home with his chest tight and throat burning, and pretends it’s just the wind that makes his eyes water.

The next two weeks are miserable, both for him and for everyone around him, because he told himself to put it behind him and move on, but he can’t. Napoleon misses Illya so much, it hurts to think about him. His friends - his other friends, his _friend_ friends - aren’t able to cheer him up, which makes him even more miserable. He knows it’s his fault, that he’s made a horrible mess of things, but that doesn’t stop him feeling sorry for himself. He’s fallen out with friends before, but it never felt like this, and he doesn’t know how to make it stop.

His two weeks of misery end unexpectedly when Illya sneaks into their quarters, scaring poor Eli to death. “Leo, there’s a fucking giant in the doorway! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”

“That has to be Solo’s sweetheart,” Jimmy whispers, rolling over in bed to get a look. If he were closer, Napoleon would smack him.

“Oh come on,” Eli moans, “it’s too early for drama.”

Of course that’s when Illya starts to talk, trying to explain himself in the German that his friends can barely understand.

“Don’t you speak English?” Jimmy asks, like it’s a thing unheard of.

“Nein.” Illya turns to Napoleon. “You cannot run away like that,” he forces out through gritted teeth. “You cannot leave me like that.”

“lllya,” Napoleon breathes.

“Don’t,” is all Illya says, but Napoleon’s already climbing out of bed and tripping across the tight-packed room to pull him into a hug.

“I won't,” Napoleon whispers, lifting his eyes to look into Illya’s, ignoring Eli’s groan as he stuffs his head under his pillow.

“Illya, I won’t,” he repeats. “I couldn’t.”

“How’d he get in?” Jimmy whispers.

“I dunno,” Eli replies from under his pillow, “but if they don’t shut up soon I’m gonna shoot them both.”

With some hesitation, he separates himself from Illya. “Wait.”

The darkness makes him stumble over things that shouldn’t be lying around, like Jimmy’s guitar and piles of Eli’s clothes, but he makes it back to his side of the room and changes as fast as he can. 

Once he’s dressed, he picks his way back to Illya and takes his hand, ignoring the sarcastic applause that comes from his friends’ beds. “Let’s go for a walk.”

They sneak out of the base with embarrassing ease. Most of Napoleon’s comrades are sleeping peacefully, and those that should be guarding the perimeter are likely playing cards and getting drunk. “At least I know now how you get away with sneaking around,” Illya says, disapproval lacing his words.

“They’ve had a rough time,” Napoleon defends them.

“So has everyone else.”

After that, they fall silent. Illya doesn’t let go of Napoleon’s hand. “I thought you’d left me,” he confesses once they’re out on the street, heading for the quieter parts of the district.

Napoleon’s heart breaks a little at that, at the ease with which Illya would assume it. “I would never, I promised you─” 

“I know, but─” Illya licks his lips. “I thought─ You are... You are so important to me. You are my first friend and I thought I had scared you away.”

“But I was the one that kissed you,” Napoleon reminds him. “If anyone was doing the scaring, it was me.”

“And I was the one that didn’t respond.”

They stop in the middle of the road. “Can I kiss you again?” Napoleon asks.

“Ja.” Before he can, though, Illya leans forward and captures his lips in what has to be one of the most awkward kisses of his entire life.

He’s not used being the smaller one, and Illya seems too inexperienced to know what to do. That doesn’t stop him from wrapping his arms around Illya, though, or pulling him closer.

Seeming to realize that there’s room for improvement, Illya drops his head against Napoleon’s shoulder and hides his face in neck. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

“For what?” Napoleon wants to know, reaching up to card his fingers through Illya’s short blond hair. It’s natural from there to run his hand down his back, feeling the length of his spine and the solid warmth of young muscle.

“For being a terrible kisser and not coming to see you sooner.” Illya kisses the side of his throat, apology or supplication or just because he can.

“What made you change your mind?”

The silence that engulfs them afterwards is deafening. At this late hour, no one is outside, the citizens of Vienna too exhausted from the day’s work to enjoy a night out. It’s an eerie atmosphere. The bombed houses and the debris on the street remind him of the war. He shivers, pressing closer to Illya.

“My comrades made fun of me again. And I just… I had no one to talk to. I realized how much I missed you and then I got angry at myself for letting you go. They called me a child and laughed when I yelled at them.”

Illya fiddles with his jacket, reaching into some inner pocket and extending a small package. “One comrade told me to start smoking.”

“And you listened to him?” Napoleon asks, disbelieving, because if he’s learned anything about Illya, it’s that he’s usually too stubborn for his own good.

“He told me it would make my voice deeper.”

Carefully, he takes the package from Illya’s hand and pockets it, effectively keeping it away from the Russian. Later, after they’ve gone their separate ways, he’ll give its contents the first passer-by he sees but keep the empty box. He’ll feel silly for it, but he’ll always be a hopeless sentimental when it comes to Illya.

“This isn’t going to prove that you’re an adult,” Napoleon tells him.

“Then what will?” Illya’s lips thin, pressed tightly together, a tell-tale sign of suppressing emotions, holding back the anger that sometimes shows violently in sudden outbursts.

“Your efficiency, your will to succeed, your interest in the world, your first kiss.” Napoleon snaps his mouth shut, cursing inwardly. He really should learn when to stop talking.

Illya puts on an exaggerated imitation of Napoleon’s honest expression. “Comrades,” he says beseechingly, “I’ve kissed an American. Please treat me with respect from now on.” 

Again, he is speechless. It happens too often around Illya. He either turns into a stuttering mess, or says nothing at all. Inwardly, he has prepared a whole speech; outwardly, he has to force out every single word.

“I see you have a lot to say about this,” Illya says.

“I’m sorry,” Napoleon responds. “I shouldn’t have kissed you without warning.”

Illya snorts. “You’re not much of a thinker anyway.”

“Excuse me?” 

“You heard what I said.” It’s said playfully, but Illya soon grows serious. “I want this to work,” he says lowly.

“You do?” Napoleon asks, like an idiot. 

“Of course I do, why wouldn’t I?”

A lot of reasons come to his mind, but instead of voicing his concerns, he turns towards the ruins of a small house. “They always tell the children not to play in the debris, because there’s a good chance they’ll step on something explosive. Being with you feels like that.”

Illya snorts. “Because of my poor anger management?”

“No, because you sweep me off my feet when you smile or laugh or do damn near anything at all,” he says, “and somehow I never see it coming.”

Illya pulls a face. “That was the most sentimental garbage I’ve ever heard,” he complains.

“You liked it,” Napoleon quips and kisses him again.

Illya only smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are. You gave me a million ideas to work with, so I picked one. Hope you enjoyed reading it!
> 
> A lot of thanks to my lovely beta [Anna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/takingoffmyshoes/pseuds/takingoffmyshoes), who did an amazing job, as always. I'm super happy you're helping me!
> 
> **Translations**
> 
> “Der kann ma a ned helfen!” - “He can't help me now!”  
> “Ist alles in Ordnung?” - “Is everything alright?”  
> “Sie müssen mir nicht helfen.” - “You don’t need to help me.”  
> “Sollte ich nicht Probleme mit der Wortfindung haben?“ - “Shouldn’t I be the one who doesn’t know what to say?”  
> “Was machen Sie in der falschen Zone?” - “What are you doing in the wrong zone?”  
> “Also sind Sie reine Dekoration?“ - “So you’re just decoration?”  
> “Wie bitte?“ - “I beg your pardon?”


End file.
